The Priesthood

What is there to say about the life of an old man? Surely great things; surely a story that goes through the ages, which seems unending, until it does end. Abruptly. As if there were no reason for his death. As if his life were supposed to continue forevermore.

We all die. It is the only thing that is truly equal about humans; after all, it is the great equalizer.

But was death truly equal? Perhaps the moment itself was when you’d succumb to the awaiting eternal darkness. If, of course, one assumed that there was nothing afterward.

But everything else about death wasn’t so equal.

The seemingly endless ways and moments in which a man could die—they could not be equal. For there were those who died with their loved ones near them; before their deaths, they could still hear them as they slowly drifted away. And enter a never-ending dream—the comfort of darkness.

There’d be no more pain; no more joy; there’d be nothing.

But if there were those who had someone there with them—someone to keep watch over them—someone to make death less scary and less lonely, then there would have to be those who had none. Those who were just lonely, completely alone, and afraid.

So cold. So very cold.

A man could die in the comfort of his own bed, by accident or in a trench, his heart pierced by a spear, his blood flowing down his armor, a soldier gasping for air, praying for anyone, anything at all, to release him. For there to be no more pain.

So afraid, so lonely, and so cold.

It was the beginning of the summer when Kanrel was called by Isbit Jankse to see his father for the last time. To converse with a man who was close to death.

Rant’s house had its familiar smell to it; everything inside seemed like it had always been. Only the old man himself was different. He lay on his bed, a man so small. His eyes could barely keep open, and his wrinkled face lacked the many expressions that Kanrel had once recognized.

At first, Kanrel thought that he had been late but was soon proven wrong, for the old man tiredly opened his eyes and called for him to come closer. “Don’ worry, you ain’t gonna get infected with old age, at least not from me…” His voice was like a whisper, yet there still remained a memory of the wit he once had.

Kanrel sat on the chair that was pulled next to the bed; now he could see that the old man was still breathing as his chest slowly rose up and down. Death would not take him—not quite yet.

“Betty… I… I regret what happened to her…” Rant suddenly said, his words soon followed by a violent cough, “She should’ve never gone so deep; she should’ve never gone there.” The old man mumbled and soon went quiet. He was still breathing.

Kanrel peered at the old man, searching his face for reasons to say such things. “What do you mean?”

Rant coughed violently again; the bed shook, but he soon found his voice again. “No one is allowed to enter,” he whispered, his voice so thin, almost nonexistent. Kanrel had to lean closer to hear and had to take a moment to comprehend the last words of a dying man.

There was silence. There was no movement. Just half-closed eyes that looked somewhere—somewhere beyond.

Kanrel’s hands shook as he slowly placed his hand on Rant’s neck and looked for a pulse. There was none, so he took out his notebook and carefully, despite his hands that refused to stop shaking, wrote down the moment of his death.

He wrote down the last words that the man had spoken, and without thinking much of anything else, he stepped outside of the room and looked for the family that was left behind.

Death, indeed, seems quite equal. But if the moments leading to death can be unequal, so can the moments after death. What is to be done with a corpse? What about the assets of a man who had just died? Where goes his house, his money, or his debt?

Sometimes, close family members would come like scavengers, pecking for the things that were left behind. Pecking the corpse for more money. And other times, there might be nothing to share. Not even a single coin was to be shared with the family that was left behind; there was no property to give away.

The now-dead man would be buried or burned. If this man was lucky enough to die in a place where his body was found. If he was lucky, he would have his own grave, and not one shared with many others—those killed by a plague or in a war.

There was nothing equal about death; there was nothing equal about life. Either way, there’d be someone who had things slightly better than someone else. But what could you do about that? We all have our own lives, which are so very different. We come from different places; some have wealthier parents, others do not.

Some work hard to achieve great recognition and riches; others try all of their lives to have even a speck of such things, only to have nothing at the end of it all.

Life was cruel, and so was death. The only good thing about death might’ve been the fact that there’d be nothing. No feeling, no pain—just nothing. But if one could regret while being dead, then they would regret not being alive. Or so Kanrel believed, not because his own life was much better than his thoughts of death, but because of the memory he had of his childhood. Of a time when life wasn’t so cruel.

Grief has many faces.

Some would cry. Some would not. Some would become solemn. Some were confused as if denying what had happened. But we all grieve, no matter the preferred way of grieving.

Isbit had no words; his face was that of a statue. His children cried, and his wife cried, yet he held his composure. One might think that such a thing is useless, even heartless. But somehow, it felt so brave.

The man hugged his wife and his children, being someone they could lean on. He did not cry so that the others could. He did not cry, for he refused to do so. For him, it felt like it wasn’t the correct time or place.

Different parts of the kingdom had their own ways of burial, different rites, and such, which needed to be done before the dead could be laid to rest.

Here, it was simple. They would burn his body as fast as they could, for no one wanted their beloved family member to go cold. If you were to go here, you would not enter the ground below. The ground is cold, and the world is cold. So let him perish in fire; let him never be cold again.

Isbit and his family said their goodbyes, and Kanrel used his magic to carry Rant’s body outside. The corpse hovered before him as he walked away from the house, just forward, until he felt that he had found a suitable spot.

He gritted his teeth, for he knew what he would have to do. He set the man down and began forming codes that would burn the body within seconds. A fire that would be like an inferno, a fire that would let only ash remain.

He prayed to the Angels as he released it—a great fire, so magnificent that it lit up like a second sun. Surely it could be seen kilometers away—this bright white fire that flashed for a moment, soon to allow the dusk back in. Enveloping Kanrel with his deed.

On the ground, there was a black spot with smoke rising from it; ash covered the ground. He formed another code: a wind that would carry the ash far away from here; it would sprinkle itself on top of the fields, the forests, and the hills.

From those ashes, life would begin anew.

He closed his eyes as the wind came and went. He would not look where it would take the remains of an old man. Solemn were his thoughts as he prayed for the Angels to lay Rant to rest.

After a while, Kanrel opened his eyes and returned to a house that would now be Isbit's. The family stood on the terrace, looking at the priest who walked their way. It was clear that they had witnessed it all.

They accepted him back into a dead man's house. And for Kanrel, it was uncertain what he was supposed to do; what words could he offer to those who grieved? A question he had asked himself many times now during his time in the village.

So he chose to listen instead. He chose to answer questions that they might have for him about death and what comes after. They talked about the man who was known as Rant, his life, his achievements, and all the things that were around him. Memories—they're so powerful.

A man might recount each encounter he had with his father from the beginning to the very end, perhaps thinking that he himself could not remember anything at all. All of those memories suddenly became so important—the only thing real. Evidence of the fact that the now-dead man once existed.

Some of those memories might seem so insignificant, but when you look back at them before his death, you see a simple image of him working in the fields, toiling the hard ground, and sweating profusely. But now that image, that memory, becomes a vessel that brings understanding: He had worked so hard, even when it was tiring, even when it amounted to nothing; he worked hard just to make sure that his family might live. That they could eat, that they would have the things they needed.

His rough hands at the end of the day, accepting his son into his arms, petting the hair of the young lad. His smell, his eyes, his presence. There was nothing fair about death—nothing beautiful—except the memories that would resurface. Memories like this and an understanding: He was important; I love him, and I still do.

Soon they grew into silence, and Isbit went outside, muttering something about wanting to relieve himself. Kanrel stayed for a little while longer, until he decided that he should return to the temple. He bid farewell to Isbit’s wife and children and stepped outside.

As he walked, soon Kanrel could hear a silent sniffling, an ugly sound of someone trying to suppress their tears—their own howling grief. He slowly looked for this sound and the creator of it, and soon he saw a familiar man sitting on the ground, his head buried into his hands.

Kanrel backed off, as he wished to let the man grieve in his lonesomeness, as he so clearly had intended to do.

It is so strong, this emotion. This complicated thing. This gut-wrenching emotion was so difficult to deal with.

It is not easy for a son to cry after the death of his own father. After all, aren’t all men supposed to be strong? Kanrel knew that it took considerable courage for Isbit to not cry before his own family, but to cry here, in his lonesome, was equally as brave. He had not known how brave a man could be.

It was so dark when Kanrel reached the village, and the only spot that chose to produce light seemed to be Vien’s tavern. It was an inviting sight—a house filled with all kinds of people—some might be jovial, some sad, but most certainly most would be drunk.

He had never had as great of an urge before to consume the liquid they called ale. Perhaps it would help him with these feelings and these painful realizations.

Perhaps this was equality equated with death: a common sense of sadness among those who had lost someone.